


The Bank Vault Incident

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Healing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mycroft Holmes Attempts To Manage His Own Emotions, Oblivious Boys So In Love, Rampant Feelings, Trapped, Vulnerable Mycroft, apparently unrequited love, background Johnlock, past mistakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-29 18:51:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16749655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: To prevent them interfering at a vital stage in his case, Sherlock tricks his brother and Lestrade into a vault in the Bank of England—and seals them in for the night. With nothing to do but sit and wait for rescue, Greg and Mycroft start talking at last.





	1. Accountable

**Author's Note:**

> G-rated! I'm as shocked as you guys, believe me.
> 
>  _The Bank Vault Incident_ is written with all my love for the very generous Lmirandas. Thank you for all your support and kindness over the years.

As the heavy steel door swung shut with a whine, the vault was plunged into darkness. Its echoing slam rang against the walls. There came a grinding scrape, a clunk and a clang as the door was locked and sealed.

Greg threw himself towards it, his heart lurching into his throat.

"Sherlock!" he roared. He began to hammer blindly at the door with both fists. "Sherlock,  _ what the hell are you doing!?" _

A muffled voice came from the other side. Greg stopped battering the door so he could hear, straining to pick up sound through the solid steel.

_ " - apologies, Lestrade, but needs must. You'll have more than plentiful oxygen for the night. I've checked." _

Greg's jaw dropped. 

"Open this bloody door!" he shouted, scrabbling for a handle or a release mechanism. _ "Now, _ Sherlock!"

Sherlock's response through the door grew faint; he was walking away. Most of it was lost. Greg picked up the name  _ 'Hawkridge', _ a known henchman of Moriarty, whose conviction Sherlock had promised him could be secured by searching the contents of this vault; he caught  _ 'apprehend', 'without interference', _ then finally, with a snide note,  _ 'company of my brother' _ \- and that was that.

He was gone. 

Greg pounded on the door for another minute. He searched again in vain for a way out, struggling to feel even the edge of the steel door. This was the Bank of England. These vaults were designed by the world's foremost engineers with a single purpose: to resist any attempt whatsoever to break in. 

It looked like breaking out would prove just as impossible.

Angry, shaking, Greg plunged a hand into the pocket of his coat. The brightness of his phone screen hurt his eyes as it appeared, a painful white rectangle in the darkness. 

It was eight minutes to midnight. He had absolutely zero signal.

As he scrabbled through his brain for solutions, trying not to panic, a weary voice came from the darkness behind him.

"This vault is steel-reinforced concrete, inspector... I doubt you'll have mobile coverage."

Greg's heart contracted. That voice hadn't addressed him personally in over a year - maybe even two.

He pressed his teeth against the side of his tongue. 

"Worth checking." He sounded too loud inside the vault, even at a mutter. He breathed in, slid his phone away and laid his hands flat against the door, leaning against them, trying to think. "The bank'll have a security team. They'll have spotted this on camera."

"Unfortunately," the other voice said, "the security on this particular vault has been suspended for the night. It is unwatched and unalarmed... surveillance will only be resumed at nine AM."

_ No. _

_ God, please no.  _

"You are kidding," he said.

"I am not. My brother asked me to arrange it, so that we could search for information on Hawkridge at our leisure. I now realise he had ulterior motive."

Greg's heart dropped like a stone. 

"Sherlock planned this all along," he said. He didn't know how he'd missed it. He'd thought it was weird, Sherlock asking him to lead the way into the vault, but he'd just marched on in to begin the search.  _ God. Stupid. Stupid, stupid.  _ "Christ. He's done this on purpose. Tricked us in here so he can go cause whatever chaos he wants. He asked me two days ago to arrest Hawkridge. I said no. Told him we need more evidence. God almighty."

He heard Mycroft sigh somewhere in the darkness. 

"It can't surprise you, can it?" Mycroft said. "Sherlock has long proven he'll toss the laws of England aside whenever they stop suiting his purpose. His adherence to rules rarely lasts."

Greg laid his forehead against the locked door, trying to settle himself.  _ Of all the people.  _

_ Jesus. This can't be happening. _

"I can't believe this," he mumbled. He bit into his lip. "Did you say nine AM?"

"Yes. These high security vaults are certainly fitted with motion sensors. Our presence should be noticed as soon as the security features reactivate."

That was nine hours away.

Greg suddenly regretted leaving his cigarettes in his car. 

_ Probably not wise,  _ he second-thought.  _ Burning up the air in a sealed bank vault.  _ Sherlock had said he'd checked the oxygen, but Greg wouldn't put it past him to have budgeted none for Mycroft.

Greg turned, pressed his back against the door, and let his knees bend beneath his weight. He slumped wearily to the ground. The back of the vault was full of paintings and old furniture, smaller safes with combination locks, but the space over here was clear. At least he wouldn't bump into anything - or  _ anyone _ \- in the dark.

_ Nine hours,  _ he thought.  _ Christ almighty, Sherlock. Leave us a flask of coffee at least. _

_ Or a big bottle of gin. _

He wondered if John had known about this.

Somewhere across the vault, there came the sound of Mycroft seating himself upon the ground.  _ A rare sight,  _ Greg thought - not that he could see it. He heard Mycroft exhale and silence fell.

The quiet seemed to ache around them.

"Did you know he was going to do this?" Greg asked.

An audible frown darkened Mycroft's voice. "If I had, inspector, I'd have taken measures to circumvent it."

_ God forbid you have to spend more than five minutes alone with me. _

"You have his magic though, don't you?" Greg said. "You can see things us mere mortals can't."

"I apply deductive reasoning to human behaviour," Mycroft replied, coldly. "It is a learnable skill. I'm not a mind reader. And Sherlock is more than adequately practiced at diverting me from what he wishes to hide."

Greg patted his empty pocket for cigarettes he didn't have. He bit his cheek, wrapped his arms around his chest instead, and shut his eyes.

"As it happens," Mycroft's voice said, "I'd have hoped that your refusal to arrest Hawkridge might have led  _ you _ to predict this."

Greg's eyes snapped open. There was only blackness.

"Hang on," he said, "this is  _ my _ fault?"

"After nine years, you should be well aware of my brother's obsessive nature by now. Did you truly think he'd listened to you and gone away prepared to wait?"

"Whoa, whoa - stop. As it happens, yes, I  _ did _ think that. He seemed reasonable about it and I thought he'd go fetch me evidence. Not lock us both in a vault so he can turn vigilante for the night."

"Well, Lestrade, I hope you now realise that he fooled you."

"Christ. Black kettle, am I? Thanks, pot. Nice to know."

"And precisely what is  _ that _ supposed to mean?"

"It means  _ you're locked in here too, _ Mycroft. Sherlock fooled us  _ both. _ Besides, you're supposedly his brother. This can't be the first time he's locked you in somewhere. How did you miss this?"

"I  _ missed it," _ Mycroft said, now audibly angry, "because I was led to believe that  _ you _ had a handle on the situation, Lestrade. I was trusting in  _ your  _ authority."

Greg's pulse was speeding out of control already.

"Right," he said, shaking. "Because when Sherlock's clean, off the drugs and behaving himself, he's your success story. But when he's causing trouble, he's mine to deal with. You delegated that pretty tidily."

_ "'Delegated'?" _ Mycroft shouted in outrage. "You assumed the role yourself! You speak as if I foisted my brother upon you like a howling toddler and took to the hills!"

"For god's sake, I didn't mean - "

"How can you  _ possibly _ claim you've been burdened with him against your wishes? You're the first to encourage him! All these disastrous schemes he ends up orchestr-"

"I've not done a thing against my wishes! And Sherlock's  _ not _ a burden - what I'm telling you is I don't appreciate being told that  _ I'm  _ accountable for it when he improvises!"

"Frankly, inspector, I'm not sure who else is accounta-"

Greg's voice rang around the vault.  _ "Sherlock does what Sherlock does!  _ Christ, when will you learn that? You have to let him. You have to work round him. Give him chances to impress you and prove you wrong, and make sure he knows when he's done good, and  _ that's all you can do with Sherlock." _

"And this approach has led the two of us here," Mycroft snapped, "for the next nine hours. Perhaps you could ruminate on that."

"Yeah?" Greg jeered, his heart still pounding. "Perhaps I will. How about  _ you _ ruminate that I'm not a junior intern you can tell off 'cause you've been inconvenienced?" 

He reached for his pocket, finding it empty yet again. 

His jaw set. 

"Just because Sherlock's not here for you to shout at," he told the silence, furiously, "don't think you can shout at me, alright? He's not a naughty kid and I'm not a bloody babysitter."

There came no response from the darkness.

Greg dropped his head back against the vault door with a thump. He shut his eyes, and told himself this was all an awful dream. He was still at home on his sofa, watching the footie with a can of cider and a microwave curry, and any second now he'd snap out of this.

This wasn't happening.

The universe wouldn't be so cruel.

 

*

 

An eternity seemed to pass before any sound disturbed the silence of the vault.

"I regret my tone, inspector. I hadn't intended to speak harshly."

Greg said nothing, staring up at a ceiling he couldn't see. 

"Neither of us could have anticipated this eventuality," Mycroft added. Greg could hear him attempting to make this gentlemanly and neat, and it was painful. "It was - ungracious of me to suggest as such. I apologise."

Greg closed his eyes. Nothing changed.

"Don't choke on that, will you?" he muttered. "Won't be able to find you to perform the Heimlich."

He heard Mycroft inhale.

"Very well," Mycroft murmured. 

Greg bit his cheek, feeling a little guilt creep through his stomach.  _ Nine hours,  _ he reminded himself.  _ Be polite. Might make this easier somehow. _

"Sorry," he said. "Don't mean to be - ... s'good of you to apologise. And - the same. Sherlock's not easy to deal with. 'Specially when he pulls daft stunts like this."

Mycroft said nothing for a few moments. It was hard to imagine him there, sitting on the floor in his posh tailored coat and his black leather gloves. 

"This is certainly a new low," he said at last, tired.

_ Christ, isn't it.  _ "D'you think John knew?"

"I very much hope he did not," Mycroft said, "otherwise I will have several choice things to say to Dr Watson in the morning."

Greg tightened his grip on his own elbows, reassuring himself. "Yeah... yeah, he's got more sense than this..."  _ He wouldn't have let Sherlock, if he knew. Not when he knows so much. He wouldn't have done this to me.  _ "Probably only realised when Sherlock locked the door on us."

There came an uncomfortable pause.

"D'you - want to try sleeping," Greg said, "or..."

He heard Mycroft inhale. "Recently I've struggled to sleep even in ordinary circumstances," he said. "It's unlikely I'll be able to... though go ahead if you wish."

"Not sure what a concrete floor would do to my back, to be honest."

"Ah. Yes, quite."

Greg hesitated, not sure he dared to ask. "What's - been keeping you up lately?"

"A work matter," Mycroft replied, and Greg had the distinct impression he was being told to mind his own business. "In truth I was reluctant to answer Sherlock's summons this evening. I'd hoped to retire early and reset my sleep cycle."

Greg thought miserably of his couch, the football and his fridge. "'Best laid plans', huh."

"In the end, he insisted to me that the lives of British citizens would depend upon his accessing this vault."

_ That matters to you. That was enough to drag you out, to do something about it.  _

"He knows how to make us dance," Greg said, "doesn't he?"

"Mm. I only hope he acts with some thought as to the political ramifications of his actions."

"Ramifications?"

"Hawkridge has... certain covert international connections. I'd asked Sherlock to act lawfully and with discretion in apprehending him."

The pieces all fell into place. "Oh... right," said Greg. "So that's why you're in here too."

"Far easier to incarcerate us than to listen to us."

"I mean... really, the surprise is he's not thought of this before."

"Certainly an effective solution." There came the sound of Mycroft shifting in the darkness. "I'd almost be impressed, if I wasn't..."

"... mad as hell?"

Mycroft huffed. "Well put."

Greg's stomach tightened. "S'pose we've got nine hours to decide which one of us gets to shout at him first."

"And to which third world country he will soon be deported."

_ Almost hope you're not joking.  _

"Somewhere they don't appreciate sarcasm," Greg suggested, "or being told they're idiots. Ideally somewhere throttling people's legal."

A final instinctive check of his pockets for cigarettes left him empty-handed; he found only a small clutch of mints he'd half-forgotten about. 

Supposing it would take up a few minutes, Greg unwrapped one with a crinkle. 

"Is - that noise you, inspector?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. Just a mint. You know the ones in restaurants, in the little packets...?"

"I see." There was a pause. "The darkness is a little disorientating."

_ Can't do your deduction thing. It's nearly all visual, isn't it? Can't scan me and analyse me... see it all there, all my secrets, all my stupid feelings... _

"Not sure the torch on my phone would last nine hours," Greg said, quietly placing the mint in his mouth.

"I doubt it would."

"Save it in case we need it, maybe."

"Mm. Possibly wise."

Greg had a feeling Mycroft was wearying of small talk. They'd known each other nearly nine years, and aside from the one disastrous and memorable incident now locked firmly away in the back of Greg's memory, they'd never really traded more than a few cursory sentences. 

Being sealed alone with Greg for nine hours was probably Mycroft's personal hell.

Greg rubbed his mint with his tongue, quietly wishing John had stepped into the vault with him first. This would be so easy with John - it'd be like their pub nights, just slightly more sober. Nine hours of enforced putting the world to rights would have been no hardship.

_ Instead, awkward silence.  _

_ Nine bloody hours of it. _

_ Christ, at least I used the loo before we left. _

 


	2. Temporary

What felt like three hours passed.

Greg checked his phone, and discovered it had been forty-five minutes.

Miserably scrolling through his useless apps, he wondered where John was right now. _Running after Sherlock, probably._ Trying to keep him alive through the night. Greg didn't kid himself for a second that John had time to be thinking about the contents of this vault. Maybe in the first few minutes, he might have spared a few moments - worried for Greg - tried to find some way to express to Sherlock what he'd just done, without really telling him what he'd done.

Sherlock didn't have a clue about The Mycroft Thing, so far as Greg and John could tell.

If he did know, he didn't care - and if he did care, it wasn't enough to spare Greg the distress of this situation. For Sherlock, human feelings were collateral damage to be swept aside. He didn't have them himself, so what did it matter if someone else's got hurt?

All that mattered to him right now was Hawkridge, the glory, the solution.

Greg had known Sherlock for so long that he should have learned by now.

_Could maybe have applied my knowledge elsewhere, too._

It was a little easy to hate himself in hindsight, especially sealed together in the darkness like this.

With only his own thoughts for company, Greg found himself sinking into them deeper and deeper. It distressed him that he should be in bed right now, warm and asleep, while instead he was here in the cold, revisiting all his regrets in painful silence.

Distress wouldn't make the time pass any faster, though.

He forced himself to try thinking about his open cases - supposing that if he couldn't be happy right now, he might as well be productive.

 

*

 

Time moved on, numb and featureless. Greg resisted checking his phone as long as he could.

When he did, it was coming up to two in the morning.

Unable to bear the boredom any longer, he sighed and flicked on the torch. There wasn't much to look at in here, but it was better than staring pointlessly into the dark.

The sphere of light filled the vault just shy of its edges, throwing lurching shadows into every corner as Greg got up. He wandered vaguely over to the antique furniture, wondering if there was anything to make this more comfortable. By the glow of his phone, he finally got a glance at his cellmate for the night.

Mycroft was sitting against the right-hand wall, not straight-backed as Greg had imagined him - but holding his head in both hands.

Greg's pulse skipped a little at the sight.

"You alright?" he checked.

Mycroft didn't move. "Mm. Quite fine."

"You - don't look fine, Mycroft."

Mycroft inhaled, keeping his head exactly where it was. "Thank you, inspector."

"Are you not good with confined spaces?"

"Merely uncomfortable."

Greg wasn't sure he'd ever been so politely told to bugger off. He turned his attention back to the furniture and held his torch high, examining the clustered odds and ends.

His heart lifted as he spotted something.

"Good news," he said, shunting an old globe aside, and reached for the ornate walnut dining chair. "Got a present for you."

As he carried it over, Mycroft looked up almost dazed from his hands.

His expression tightened at the sight of the chair. "Inspector, that isn't our property."

"We're not stealing it," Greg said, placing the chair down beside him. "Just making use of it. And if you break it, you can probably afford to replace it. Save your back, Mycroft. Sit down."

"Are there two?"

 _Like you care._ "No," said Greg. "Sit down."

Mycroft paused, regarding him warily in the glow of the torch. He seemed to be looking for some kind of trick - some reason Greg was doing this.

Greg's heart tightened at the suspicion.

 _Think it,_ he told the sharp grey eyes in silence. _Think what you're thinking. You know why I'd rather let you have it. What does it matter?_

Mycroft said nothing, uneasy.

Greg offered out an arm to help him up from the floor.

"C'mon," he said, stiffly. "Don't be like this. It's only sensible."

Still wary, Mycroft took his arm.

As he sat back in the chair, visible relief ached across Mycroft's face. He gripped the arms and closed his eyes.

"There y'go," said Greg, trying a smile. It felt weak on his mouth.

Mycroft inhaled. "We should exchange," he said, "every hour, perhaps. So that you..."

 _You don't need to be nice to me._ "M'fine for now. Relax a bit."

Mycroft glanced up at him, guarded. "I - a-apologise, Lestrade."

"What for?"

"My - agitation." _This is you agitated? Christ._ "It's been some time since I was in a similar... a-and I was glad to leave those days behind."

Greg's forehead creased. "What days?"

"Field work."

"Oh - god, you mean - security services stuff?"

"Mm."

Greg pushed his hands into his pockets, wondering. "Spent a lot of time breaking into bank vaults, did you?"

Mycroft huffed, his eyes shutting again.

"I spent time in other darkened and sealed spaces against my will," he said.

 _Holy shit._ "Jesus - you mean you - "

"I am of course unable to discuss the matter."

"Right. Right, no, I get it. But you - "

"Yes."

"Okay. Well - listen, we'll try and make this feel different. What can I do to make you comfortable?"

"V-Very little."

"Does light help?"

"Inspector, your phone battery won't - "

"No, but we can have it for a while to settle you. Not using it for anything else, am I?" Greg glanced over at the crowd of furniture, spotting an old piano stool beneath a table. He retrieved it, scraping it across to Mycroft's side. "Guessing these previous experiences were spent alone?"

"Mm."

"Okay. Look, I know I'm the last person on Earth you'd want to spend time with, but for the sake of getting you through this, I'll come sit by you. Better painful small talk than trauma. And it'll be easier knowing where I am, right? Knowing what's around you?"

Mycroft said nothing, his eyes still shut.

Greg reached into his pocket.

At the crinkling sound, Mycroft opened one eye. He watched with pained, reluctant amusement as Greg produced a mint imperial for him, unwrapped the silver foil and held it out.

"Sugar'll calm you down," Greg said. "Here."

Mycroft took the mint. The brief contact of their fingers was enough for Greg to confirm he was shaking.

"Should've told me," Greg murmured, as Mycroft placed the white ball in his mouth. "I didn't realise."

Mycroft inhaled, still not meeting Greg's eyes. "Hardly something I share."

"Well, this is a weird situation. We'll get through it better if we agree to be temporary friends."

Mycroft curled his fingers around his other wrist, uncomfortable. "I'm sorry to put you in such an unwanted position."

 _That unbearable, am I?_ Greg kept the sting off his face.

"I can leave you alone, if you want," he said. "It's up to you. Tell me what you'd prefer and I'll do it."

Mycroft said nothing for a moment, looking down.

"I'm sorry, inspector," he mumbled at last. "I appreciate there are people you'd much rather spend a mandatory nine hours with."

Greg's pulse quickened, heavy and uncomfortable.

"Well, it's the same for you - right? And we don't have that choice. So tell me which it's to be: sit here and chat, or leave you alone with the torch on my phone until the battery runs down. I don't care which."

Mycroft hesitated, the lump of his mint imperial just visible against his right cheek.

"You're - kind to settle me, Lestrade," he said. "Thank you."

Greg ignored the hard thump against his ribs. "Let's - go for 'Greg', shall we? Seeing as we're friends for the night."

Uncertain humour tightened Mycroft's mouth. The tiny half-lift was a good sign though, Greg thought - maybe this wouldn't be totally unbearable. "Very well, Greg."

_Don't think you've ever called me that before. Even when..._

_Who knew it'd be tonight?_

"Good," Greg said, willing his heart to settle. He reached into his pocket to get a mint for himself. "So, seeing as it's his fault we're in here... let's start with embarrassing childhood stories about Sherlock. Adulthood stories too, if you've got 'em. Let's see how much we can make him regret putting the pair of us in here together."

 

*

 

"Ah... probably Henry James, when I have the time."

"Henry James... remind me?"

_"The Turn of the Screw."_

"Must've been away the week we did that at school."

_"The Golden Bowl?"_

"Nope. Nothing."

"Well... I suppose it's rare enough I have the opportunity to read these days. Do you...?"

Greg huffed. "There's a Lee Child gathering dust on my bedside table. I'm the same as you, I think. Can't seem to find the time."

"Mm. It is difficult."

"Some weeks I never make it home before nine. Throw food down my throat and go to sleep."

"I confess this sounds familiar."

"Yeah?"

"Work has always been... well, occupying. Gladly so. Somewhere along the line, I seem to have misplaced the skill of relaxing. Even when the time now presents itself, I inevitably find some work task to fill it."

"Christ, I know that one..."

"I suppose when one lives alone... well..."

"Nobody there to remind you to switch off."

"Indeed."

Greg pulled his coat tighter around his chest, breathing in the cold air. Mycroft's voice was strangely soft in the quiet. It was nice to listen to.

"Plenty of people to remind you the world'll come crashing down without your constant supervision," he murmured. "Guessing in your case that's _literally_ crashing down."

"Mhm. There's always plenty to do." There came a quiet pause from the darkness beside him. "I imagine the pressures you face are equally relentless, though."

_D'you mean that? Really?_

"Well... keeps me from fancy ideas about relaxing, anyway." Greg shifted, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "This was the first proper night off I've had in weeks."

"Did you have plans?"

"Only with myself. Catch the footie for once."

"Ah." Mycroft inhaled. "I'm sorry for your wasted evening, Greg."

_Say my name again. Please. Say it over and over until dawn._

"Not your fault," Greg said, quietly. He fastened another button on his coat. "I'm not doing paperwork, at least."

 

*

 

"Don't you know already?"

"No - should I?"

"Sherlock announced it within about two minutes of knowing me... even guessed her name right."

"I try to limit deductive reasoning to those occasions when it is warranted. I've never felt a need to subject every person I meet to an intrusive analysis of their private life. Frankly, in my profession it would be unwise."

Greg smiled, rubbing the button on his shirt cuff. "That's why you're dangerous, isn't it?" he said. "You're as smart as Sherlock, but you know when to keep it to yourself."

"Should I be flattered by 'dangerous'?"

"S'what Sherlock calls you. 'The most dangerous man in Britain'."

"He calls me various things, I'm sure."

"Could you work it out, though?"

"Your siblings?"

Mycroft seemed to think about it. "From your previous response," he said, "that Sherlock had guessed _her_ name correctly, I now assume a single sister."

"Yep. Older sister - Jo - four nieces now."

 _"Four_ nieces?"

"Yep. Jo and Phil're desperate for a boy. They've said they'll have one more try, then that's it."

"A busy household, I imagine."

"Christ, you wouldn't believe. Christmas is a riot. Princess dolls and ponies everywhere... Mia - second eldest - she's turning out a bit more rough-and-tumble, now she's started school. She's been saying she wants to be a detective when she's grown up. Solve crimes."

"Like her uncle?"

"God help me."

Mycroft made a quiet sound of amusement. "It must be rather nice to be emulated," he remarked.

"Have to admit, when Jo told me... well, I was kinda pleased. Nice to know I'm doing something right."

"Do you see the children often?"

"Nearly every weekend, since... y'know, since I was out on my own." That would never sound as casual to Greg's ears as he wished it would. "Phil and Jo pretty much adopted me when the divorce kicked off. Don't know what I'd have done without them, to be honest."

There was a pause; Mycroft was thinking of something to say.

"Your sister sounds very kind," he remarked at last.

Greg smiled, imagining her face. People said they looked alike. "She's a miracle. Takes after our mum."

"Are your parents still...?"

"Mum is, yeah. We lost Dad ten years ago now. Stroke. How 'bout yours?"

"My mother is in residential care near Richmond Park. My father passed away when Sherlock was still fairly young."

Quiet guilt flickered through Greg's chest, unable to suppress the thought that it explained a few things.

"Can't have been easy," he offered. "You were young, too."

"Well... I suppose these things happen." Mycroft paused. "I did what I could."

"S'all we can ever do."

"Mm. Quite."

 

*

 

"So... you were involved in field work, were you?"

"Ah. Yes. An inordinately long time ago."

"Foreign shores and jumping out of planes?"

"Foreign shores, yes. Leaping from aircraft, no. A career in intelligence is rather less glamorous than the entertainment industry might have you believe."

"No Bond girls in slinky dresses," Greg said with a smile. He knew Mycroft wouldn't be able to see it; he hoped he could still hear it.

Mycroft huffed in the darkness beside him.

"If there were," he remarked, "they escaped my notice."

"No handsome foreign spies?"

Mycroft's laugh seemed to light up the vault for a moment. Greg grinned, enjoying the noise more than anything he'd heard in months.

"Alas not... wedded to my work. It's been a very dull and uneventful life in regards to handsome foreign spies."

There came a pause. They were coming close to history - to things that couldn't be discussed. Greg didn't want to upset this comfortable equilibrium they'd found, not when it felt so fragile still.

As he cast about in his head for a new subject, some tidy diversion onto another topic, Mycroft surprised him.

"Have you a partner at the moment?"

_Polite._

_Just polite interest, Lestrade. Don't even think it._

"Not right now," Greg said, impressed by his own ability to sound normal.

"No Bond girls in slinky dresses?"

"Ha. No."

"Nor handsome foreign spies?"

_So weird that you know I go for both._

_All the people in this world who don't know, but you do._

"Bond girls and handsome spies kinda thin on the ground these days," Greg said, with a faint smile. "Think I might've had my lot."

Mycroft hummed. "I'm quite certain that isn't true."

"Yeah?" Greg said, trying to cover his racing heart with humour. "This is the first social event I've been to in months. And we're sealed in a bank vault, Mycroft."

"Admittedly a poor place to meet a partner, but..."

_God, don't tease me. Don't. Please don't tease me with that._

"Not sure it would take off," Greg said, holding tight to humour. "Bank vault speed dating... instead of sixty seconds talking to someone about their boring day at work, you get locked in a sealed vault for nine hours."

"It would certainly test any fledgling courtship."

"To the point of breaking, maybe."

"Better to break early," Mycroft ventured, "if a break is inevitable."

Greg wished someone had told him that four years ago - told him it loudly, over and over until he listened. He pulled at the loose thread he'd found on his cuff.

The quiet lingered a little.

"My sister says if you want to test a relationship," he offered, "you should put up a tent together."

Mycroft responded with surprise. "A tent?"

"Mm."

"Why on earth a tent?"

"If you can survive putting up a tent together, you can handle anything. All those fiddly parts. Tents and Ikea furniture - same thing."

Mycroft chuckled quietly; Greg's heart seemed to squirm at the sound.

"Sadly," he said, "I shall never experience either."

_I'd build Ikea furniture with you around the clock, if you let me. I'd put up a thousand tents together. Rain and mud and no mallet._

Greg bit his lip, pushing the thoughts aside.

"D'you reckon Sherlock and John could put up a tent?" he asked.

Mycroft snorted. "The pair of them will be fashioned into a tent, when I've finished with them."

"Yeah?" Greg reached into his pocket for another mint. "I'll help you put it up."

 

*

 

"Hey - look. Nearly halfway."

"Dear Christ... we still have four and a half hours to go."

"Well... still nearer to five hours. Getting there, though."

Mycroft shifted with discomfort, shivering in the darkness beside Greg.

"I've never felt quite so stiff in all my life," he said, audibly gathering his coat around himself. "I don't think Sherlock gave a moment's thought as to our comfort."

"M'just hoping he's not got himself into trouble," Greg murmured. "Christ knows what he could have done already... even with John to slow him down..."

"Rather chills the blood, doesn't it?"

"Definitely. You cold?"

"Ah - perhaps a little."

"Me too. Guess they keep these vaults at a low temperature to preserve the contents... fire risk."

"Mm."

"Nothing we can really use as a blanket..."

There came a long pause, in which Greg caught the sound of a risk being calculated.

"Greg, I... I'm not sure as to the progress of our temporary friendship - but with two coats, we do have some opportunities for the shared preservation of body heat."

Greg forced himself to react calmly. "Use them as - blankets, you mean? Share them?"

"O-Only if you'd be comfortable with..."

"Yeah, 'course. It's a good idea." _Oh my god, what was that skip? Why did you stutter?_ Greg reached into his pocket for his phone, switching on the torch and beaming it around the vault. "Maybe against that wardrobe, d'you think? It'll be warmer than the stone wall, anyway..."

"Yes - agreed."

They got up together, crossing the vault as they unbuttoned their coats. Greg's fingers fumbled over the fastenings.

"Right," he said. "This might take some careful tucking, but we'll manage it. What's your coat made from? Proper wool?"

"It is."

"Better that's the first layer," Greg said. "Softer."

They settled on the floor side-by-side, pushed close to each other and navigated Mycroft's coat to surround them, shifting and squeezing until they were covered.

"Tuck your arms in," Greg said, leaning over to anchor his own coat behind Mycroft's shoulder. His heart was trying to punch its way out through his ribs. "You okay like this?"

He felt Mycroft shudder a little beside him. "Yes. Anything for warmth."

 _Jesus._ Greg wrapped his coat on top of Mycroft's, squirming to get it tucked around them both. He switched off his torch. Darkness dropped back around them. "There - how's that? You covered?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"Good. Me too. Okay, now think warm thoughts."

Mycroft huffed beside him. "My brother mounted on a pyre, perhaps..."

"Christ, yes."

"Begging us for forgiveness as he burns."

"God. Imagine the screams."

"Mhm, I shall... in some detail."

"D'you want another mint?"

"How many do you have?"

"Another four, I think. Gotta keep our strength up."

Mycroft thought about it for a moment, inhaling. "Very well. I'll have one."

Greg worked the foil packet free from his pocket, unwrapping it with a crinkle.

"I'll invoice you," he said. "Right, where's your hand?"

Beneath the coats, Mycroft's fingers appeared on his forearm. They transferred the mint between them, both quietly amused, and for a while there was comfortable quiet.

"Greg?" Mycroft said at last.

"Mm?"

"Thank you for your company." _Christ._ "This has been - rather less gruelling than I feared."

Greg gazed into the darkness, rolling the mint across his mouth.

_'Less gruelling than I feared'._

_That'll do,_ he thought. _I'll take that._

"No worries, mate," he murmured.

 


	3. Mistakes

Greg couldn't be sure when sleep had come. He remembered a softening in the conversation, a shared slowing of thought, then the comforting quiet had closed in around them. It had been so easy to sink into its depths.

The next thing he knew, he was waking up to familiar darkness - with a warm weight nestled against his shoulder.

Mycroft was asleep. Those low, soft breaths couldn't be faked. The two of them were warm at last, and though Greg's back had hardened into a solid slab of pain, his soul felt at peace.

For a while he sat motionless in the silence, feeling Mycroft breathe against his neck.

He wanted to wrap an arm around his shoulders.

He wanted it more than anything in the world. He wanted to gather Mycroft close to him, whispering, _it's just me, darlin'. It's alright._ He wanted to stroke back that unruly front curl of dark red hair, kiss the freckled forehead beneath, and keep watch until the morning.

He'd wanted it for nine damn years now.

And for the first time, safe here in the quiet, it almost didn't hurt.

His whole life had changed, the first time he laid eyes on Mycroft Holmes. Something about that night had hit him like a bolt of lightning. Every detail was engraved into his memory, as fresh and sharp as ever: Mycroft standing alone and leaning on his umbrella, some old warehouse in Peckham, his silhouette silvered by the headlights of the car which had brought Greg to him. Black coat, black shoes, black leather gloves, as sharp and cool as tempered steel. _'What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?'_ Greg could hear the words like it was yesterday. His mind would rot to nothing before the memory dulled.

Mycroft had strolled into his life like nothing else before him was really real.

The intensity of that instinctive response had left Greg almost nauseous with guilt. He was married - he wasn't meant to feel things like that anymore. That slender band of gold around his finger was supposed to be his shield.

But the clever stranger's voice had caused his temperature to rise, his thoughts to blur and his pulse to hitch beyond his control. Just being the focus of those wintry grey eyes made him feel like he was lighting up all over. He'd been a lost cause from that first toying drawl of his name.

After some wary discussion, Greg had figured out Mycroft wasn't some shady London villain who meant Sherlock harm. Sherlock hadn't even mentioned he had a brother - but then, Sherlock had every right to feel abandoned by his family. The squat he lived in wasn't fit to house livestock. It was no wonder to Greg that he'd ended up on drugs; he'd assumed Sherlock was alone in the world, and now here was a brother, claiming concern, offering him cash for information.

Greg haggled the offered money up to the level of a decent London rent, then passed it all on to Sherlock.

He'd gone home to his wife and held her tight, telling her he'd been delayed at work. He'd taken her out for dinner that weekend. He'd hated the thought he'd been disloyal, even in instincts beyond his control. She deserved better than that.

Three months later, Greg found himself escorted to a multi-storey car park in Lambeth.

Sherlock's brother must have checked the information he'd been fed. Sherlock came up with it all; Greg just passed it on and withdrew the funds. Mycroft had clearly done his research, made a few jumps of logic, arrived at a conclusion, and now with some annoyance wished to know the reasons behind Greg's deception. He presented Greg with his own bank statements, showing the level of debt they were still in after the wedding. _'Strange, you should choose to ignore that in favour of supporting my brother. I'd be thrilled to hear  your explanation.'_

A fairly blazing row at once kicked off. Greg, violated and hurt, didn't see why he should have to explain to a grown man that paying someone to spy on your younger sibling was weird. Mycroft, unused to being spoken to in such a fashion, informed Greg that if he'd had the slightest idea of Sherlock's _true_ nature he would understand entirely why subterfuge was the only option.

They shouted until they blew themselves out, then reached a reluctant consensus: it was best for them to keep up the illusion. Sherlock wouldn't simply accept the money from Mycroft; he had to feel like he was taking it deceitfully. Greg agreed he would give Mycroft genuine updates on Sherlock's health and wellbeing, but nothing at all to do with Sherlock's private life. Greg declined the new offer of money for himself, with a warning that if Mycroft even tried it, the additional money would simply be handed to Sherlock. Greg made it clear that he didn't appreciate having his bank statements produced by a stranger for him to explain, and that if Mycroft wished to contact him in future, he could e-mail him or ring like everybody else.

He went home that night a mess, quietly hating himself.

Making Mycroft angry enough to shout at him, to show him the emotion beneath that cool and composed exterior, felt good. He hadn't wanted it to. Mycroft ticked every damn box on his list - clever, a little arrogant, dressed to kill. Probably trained for it too. Arguing had felt like connection. He'd gotten under Mycroft's skin, and he'd liked it there.

He took his wife away for Christmas. Special, just the two of them.

Time began to pass. Mycroft became mere words on a screen, clipped and formal and functional. Greg's heart soon stopped leaping at the sight of that name in his inbox. Before long, the passing months added up to five years - five years of Sherlock, five years of Mycroft, five years of guilt whenever Greg came across him in person. It didn't happen often, but when it did, he felt the lightning bolt drive itself straight through his chest all over again. He got the feeling Mycroft maybe knew. It would explain why he never really looked Greg in the eye.

And after all the guilt, all the worry, she'd beaten him to it.

It was September when it all came to light. She told him one weekend - sat him down in the lounge. An old friend of theirs. Over a year now. The other guy's wife had found out from his texts; she was threatening to tell Greg. It all had to come out.

By October the two of them were on a trial separation. She needed space, she said. Greg couldn't even talk to her, hearing that. _'I need space',_ like he was in the wrong - like it was somehow his fault she'd humiliated him, broken him, thrown it all aside for a few thrills - all they'd had. All they'd built. He didn't want to make things right if she felt like that, and so he gave her space. He gave her all the space she could dream of. He threw himself into work to numb the pain; he told his sister he was fine, just busy with a big new inquiry.

Distracted, distressed, he didn't check on Sherlock as often as he should.

Sherlock overdosed three days before Halloween. It was how Greg found out he was listed in Sherlock's phone as _'ICE: DI Lestrade Scotland Yard'._ He called Mycroft in a panic, left a message with his assistant and got himself to A&E. Only a few minutes after Greg arrived, there came a message that Sherlock Holmes was to be moved to London Bridge Hospital for private treatment at once.

Greg went with him in the ambulance, answering Mycroft's frantic texts as they drove.

They sat watch together over Sherlock all night. Greg couldn't even remember if they'd talked. If they had, the shock and misery of those painful hours had long since bleached the discussion from his memory.

After that first night, he and Mycroft swapped shifts. They kept each other updated by e-mail. It felt like they were divorced parents, suddenly united and strong over a sick child, but Sherlock was never on his own.

When he came back out of hospital, Greg dropped in on him most days to see if he needed anything - giving him old cases to occupy his mind, texting Mycroft when he'd left to say that all was well. Looking after Sherlock was giving him purpose and pride. Greg was still sleeping on a friend's sofa, but it didn't matter. Knowing Sherlock would be alright had made his life feel better again somehow. He'd screwed up; he was determined not to screw up again.

One night his phone began to ring.

Mycroft - a little formal, a little awkward. Would Greg be happy to meet him at his club this evening? No reason was given.

Greg didn't really need a reason. He was tired of hanging around his mate's house like a bad smell every night, sitting there uncomfortably with Paul and Paul's girlfriend, well aware he was intruding on their privacy.

Mycroft's private room at his club was warm and comfortable, and there was scotch - and there was Mycroft. There was gratitude expressed which Greg didn't need. There was an uncomfortable offer of reparation for any expenses imbued, and Greg began to wonder if this was how Mycroft tried to care for people he liked. He offered them the only thing he believed he had to give: money.

Greg settled for dinner instead.

They ate together by the fire. More scotch appeared, more quiet conversation shared, and somehow it was nearly one AM. They were still sitting on the sofa together, nursing empty glasses.

Mycroft's eyes were soft. His pupils were big and dark, full of firelight as he listened. His hair was just a little dishevelled, unaware he'd been touching it as he talked, and he was looking at Greg as if just looking gave him pleasure. It was five years since Greg first felt the lightning bolt strike. It felt like those five years had guided him right here to this sofa, to the firelight, and everything was happening just right.

Greg didn't remember who'd moved first.

From what came after, he guessed it must have been him - but all he knew for sure was that Mycroft felt warm and slim and perfect in his arms, and his lips were soft against Greg's mouth, and he smelled of expensive cologne.

His hands had scrunched into Greg's hair as they kissed.

At the time, it felt like a pure and perfect moment - a happiness unspoiled by anything. Greg hadn't even been thinking. He'd been fully and completely alive, nowhere else, no narration going on inside his head - just gently falling in love with Mycroft's nervous kisses, with his sounds, with the feeling of stroking the silk back of his waistcoat. _You're kissing me. You're mine. You're really, honestly mine._ Five years of painful love, of guilt and longing, and he was everything Greg had ever dreamed.

They'd laid kissing on the couch like teenagers, like no-one else existed in the world, until an attendant came to say apologetically that it was almost half past one - a hint, Greg thought, for the pair of them to be moving on.

They'd kissed goodbye two streets away from the club.

Mycroft hadn't wanted to be seen with him. It all made painful sense now - though it hadn't at the time.

 _'I'll call you,'_ Greg had said, and even as he'd glimpsed the panicked flash in Mycroft's eyes, he'd wished the sight away. He'd been too happy. He hadn't wanted to see it, so he ignored it. He'd waited five years and he wanted to be in love. _'G'night, darlin'.'_

It was the first time he'd ever called Mycroft that.

It was the last time, too.

After three days of no answer, Greg started to worry. After a week, he started passing into grief. He knew Mycroft must be receiving his calls. They'd been communicating on this number for years, and Mycroft kept the phone with him constantly. He responded to e-mails about Sherlock within minutes. If he was out of the country, his assistant responded to let Greg know.

There was always acknowledgement. _Always._

Except this time, when Greg needed it the most.

A few more tentative calls over the next week, sitting on his friend's sofa in the small hours, trying not to cry. _Was I too much? Why did you kiss me back? Were you just curious?_ Two weeks, no answer, and it looked like he would never know. Mycroft had vanished on him and that was the end of it. Greg started thinking about how much scotch they'd drunk. It hadn't felt like too much, but perhaps it was. The liquor had helped him feel honest and open and brave; maybe it made Mycroft feel reckless and unwise.

The final days of November somehow rolled around.

His wife called. Wanted to talk.

They met in a café near Scotland Yard.

She was sorry, she said. She'd been speaking to a counsellor. She understood it all now. She hadn't known how to ask Greg for more of his time - it was a cry for help. She hadn't really wanted someone else's arms. She'd wanted his.

And she'd missed him.

And Greg missed home.

He missed feeling like someone cared about him. He missed that one night with Mycroft so much it hurt to breathe. He couldn't cope with the thought of spending Christmas living on a couch, ruining a happy couple's privacy like he'd ruined everything in his own life. He was grieving his entire world, sitting in the wreckage of decisions he'd thought were good and right. He'd been humiliated; he'd been used. His life had gone from bad to worse, then worse and worse again. For one night Mycroft's arms had made it feel like it was meant to be this way, like it was all going explosively right, not wrong, and Greg had been so desperate for it to be real that he didn't see he was just an experiment - just a drunken mistake - an error of judgement, now to be ignored until he slunk away.

And in the end, he let her hands steal into his again. He let her cry and say all the things she wanted.

 _At least there's somebody,_ he'd thought.

_Even if it can't be..._

Mid-January, the assistant e-mailed. They'd uncovered some evidence that Sherlock had been in recent contact with an old drug dealer. Winter was always a dangerous time, long nights of darkness alone. Would Greg be able to look into the matter for Mycroft?

_You need me, then._

_You just don't want me._

Another year went by, and John Watson blew into Sherlock's world like a sudden spring. Greg had seen it almost at once: a kindred spirit; another normal bloke, just trying to get on with his life, then struck by a Holmes like a lightning bolt. John was in love with Sherlock from those first few days. It was six months before he admitted it to Greg, drunk as hell one night in the pub.

Sherlock wasn't interested, of course. Married to his work, John said.

Greg had told John about Mycroft just to make him feel better. _'You're not alone, mate.'_

Since then, trips to the pub had become mutual therapy. John had talked him through his divorce - what little there was to talk about. Somehow, the discovery of the resumed affair had brought anger instead of pain. The anger felt like a friend. It was loyal and it was proud and protective, and Greg listened to it. He listened to John. He did what he should have done before, when she'd done this to him the first time; he left. He went straight to his sister for help. Jo took him in - and between the people who really cared about him, he'd made it.

He and John had stopped talking about the divorce a good while ago now.

They still talked about Mycroft, though.

Nobody else in the world could understand what Greg had been through. Falling in love with a Holmes was the stupidest decision a man could make. At least there were two of them now, two idiots who couldn't go back no matter how they tried.

Greg didn't know if he envied John or not. John got to live with his Holmes - see him, help him, spend time with him - but it came with the pain of unrequited love cut fresh every single day. John had been doing well lately, dating. A few girlfriends. He was trying to find someone who would outshine Sherlock, someone who could give it all back, and Greg truly hoped he managed it.

If he did, it meant Greg might manage it someday too.

Mycroft barely deigned to speak to him now. It had been this way for four years. That first terse e-mail asking about Sherlock's welfare had hurt like hell, but over time it came to feel normal again. If it wasn't strictly about Sherlock, Mycroft didn't want to know. In the three years since John, contact had become even less frequent - Greg suspected John had replaced him in that regard.

He wasn't surprised.

A shepherd for Sherlock without the sting of mortifying memories; Mycroft must have been relieved beyond measure when John turned up. He'd severed those last few ties almost at once.

 _'Temporary friends',_ Greg thought to himself, as his heart beat hard in the darkness.

He turned his head a little, listening to Mycroft sleep. Even with their long night's incarceration, Mycroft's hair still smelled clean and soft.

_You don't know what I'd give for you._

_What I'd try to be for you._

_I'd bring you the world, if you asked me_

At least they'd had one time. One pure and perfect time - and it hurt to think that, for Mycroft, the happiest night of Greg's decade had been some kind of reckless curiosity gone too far - but Greg couldn't change that.

He just had to live with it, wounded and still walking.

He supposed Mycroft was like Sherlock, uninterested in human connection. Greg had been an experiment. A trial to see if the taste could be acquired.

It couldn't. It hadn't been.

And Greg would make his peace with it any day now.

 _Five years,_ he thought, gazing into the featureless black all around them. Five long and awkward years - then nine hours sealed in a vault, and they could finally be temporary friends.

Maybe if Sherlock left them in here for a few weeks, they could even be real friends.

Or maybe things had gone too far for that.

 _If I can survive this,_ Greg told himself, shifting against the pain in his lower back, _I can survive anything._

Mycroft stirred in his sleep. He cuddled closer into Greg's shoulder with a mumble, wrapped an arm around his arm, and slept on undisturbed.

Greg let his eyes fall shut, trying to ease the heat now rising in them.

Maybe he should try dating again. He and John could find a singles night somewhere, look out for each other. It would be a fun outing for the _Idiots Who Fell in Love with a Holmes Club_ at least, and it would make a nice change from the pub.

Maybe they'd both bump into their soulmates - fall in love with someone who could love them back.

They'd have a double-wedding and send postcards from the double-honeymoon; postcards which would be read, acknowledged, then binned without a thought.

Or maybe they'd have a few awkward drinks, chat with some other scraps from the bottom of the dating heap, then never venture outside the safety of the Red Lion again. They'd go on meeting every week or so for a drink, talk about work and the football and family, then on the third pint finally ask, _'How are you doing with...?' -_ and so life would continue for the idiots who fell in love with a Holmes.

As Greg's arm went slowly dead under Mycroft's weight, he let the static prickle guide him closer to dawn.

_Can't be much longer now._

_Couple more hours, maybe._

He wished he could check the time on his phone - but he couldn't bring himself to move.

 


	4. Complicated

When Greg came round again, Mycroft's weight had gone from his shoulder. He shifted groggily in the darkness and reached up to rub his eyes.

"Mycr'ff?" he mumbled.

He felt Mycroft stir beside him.

"Ten past eight," came the murmur. Mycroft's throat rasped a little from the lack of water. "We should be noticed within the hour."

_God._

_We're nearly there._

Greg drew a pained yawn with a shudder, his bones cracking as he stretched beneath their coats.

"Sorry I drifted off... were you alright on your own?"

A little humour warmed Mycroft's voice. "You were good enough to remain corporeal as you slept... I wasn't on my own."

_Say more smart things at me. Please. Before this is over._

"Happy to help." Greg coughed, clearing his dry throat. "Did you sleep alright?"

"As well as could be expected... a little time passed, at least."

"Yeah... s'the important part."

"Mm." Mycroft sighed, stirring again. Greg felt his legs stretch out beneath the coats. "I'd started to hope Sherlock's endeavours might have attracted the attention of the authorities... possibly end our incarceration early... sadly it seems we're serving the full term."

As long as Sherlock had survived the night, so they could kill him, Greg didn't mind.

"He probably got hold of Hawkridge in the first hour," he said. "Spent the other eight hours putting distance between us and him."

Mycroft snorted softly. "If he has any sense."

"First time for everything, eh?"

"They do say miracles never cease. I'm sure we'll see."

Quiet hugged around them.

Trying to think of something to say, Greg was at first relieved by Mycroft's voice.

"May I say something to you?"

 _Christ._ "S-Sure. Go ahead."

"I confess I wouldn't have chosen for us to undergo this experience together. I'm aware that you feel quite the same. But I appreciate the pains you've taken towards my comfort, Greg... you - have been very kind to me. Thank you."

_What else would I have been?_

For a few moments Greg was silent, trying to figure out what else Mycroft might have expected to happen.

_Like I'd take the chance to berate you._

"Don't need to thank me for basic decency," Greg said, painfully aware of his own voice - everything it wasn't saying. "Sherlock's a shit for doing this to us, but... s'not your fault. And it's not been a problem, you know that?"

Mycroft said nothing. Greg could almost feel him thinking, reading, trying to understand.

"Perhaps you're not really here at all," Mycroft said at last, quietly. "I've merely imagined you to cheer my spirits until morning. The door will open and you'll be gone with the light."

Greg's heart tightened in his chest.

_He's joking. Humour._

_Joke back._

"Nine hours of total darkness," he said, "and _I'm_ the best distraction you could come up with?"

Mycroft said nothing, not moving beside him.

"If it helps," Greg offered, begging his pulse to settle back down, "I'm pretty sure I'm real. No evidence to the contrary."

Mycroft huffed. "Mm. My imagination isn't usually this honed."

Greg tried putting a smile in his voice. "If I was imaginary, Mycroft, you'd have spent nine hours strangling me. And you know it."

There was a pause, not completely comfortable.

"Perhaps just once or twice," Mycroft admitted.

Quiet fell again.

The vault around them seemed suddenly far larger and emptier than it had been only a minute before. Though Greg couldn't see it, he was distressingly conscious of it - the size of the space, the smallness of the two of them here together, huddled under their coats.

This was probably the last unbroken hour of time he got to spend with Mycroft Holmes.

He tried to think what John would advise. All those nights in the pub, trying to bring each other some sort of solace, and John's voice was suddenly a million miles away. Greg had never known whether to encourage John towards hope or towards peace when it came to Sherlock. John was good at just listening, just witnessing it all.

_It's not him I want to listen, though... is it?_

Greg felt the realisation burn quietly through his chest, changing him. Now he'd thought it, he couldn't put it back.

_It's you I've wished was there to listen._

He tightened his hands beneath the coats, telling himself that if this went wrong, it would only be an hour of painful silence to wait. If it went right, maybe there'd be peace at last. They could have the kind of professional association they had back at the start, discussing Sherlock like adults, figuring out what was best for his welfare. It would still hurt sometimes - it would always hurt, seeing Mycroft come towards him - but it wouldn't cut him to the heart just seeing that name on his phone screen.

That made it feel worth the risk.

_Four damn years._

_God, let's do this. Get it done, Lestrade - before it's too late._

"Listen," he murmured, ignoring the sudden constriction of his chest around his lungs. "I, um... I'm sorry. For - before. I think about it a lot sometimes, and this... seems like a good chance to say it. I'm really sorry."

"For... 'before'?"

_Christ. Can't go back now._

"You know, the... four years ago," Greg said. "At your club."

There came a long, desperate silence.

"Oh," Mycroft said at last.

Greg gripped his own hands together, forcing them not to shake.

"Sorry. Bringing it up. I just... I-I never got the chance to talk to you, and I know I made things awkward between us. Just... just know that I regret it. A lot. And I wanted you to know."

Another silence stretched on, even longer and desperate than the first.

"I see," Mycroft said. Greg inhaled in utter silence. "It's - good of you to say. But not necessary."

"M'sorry to drag it all up."

"No, it's... it's quite alright."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Mycroft said, and nothing else.

The silence felt like claws tightening around Greg's chest. He didn't know how to break their grip - he didn't know what else to say. As he began to realise his risk had failed, and eight hours of a fragile truce had now come to an end, he shut his eyes and swallowed.

_At least I said it. At least I... some dignity - some peace._

_God. Oh god, this doesn't feel like peace._

_What've I done? Why did I have to go and..._

Mycroft's voice came as a surprise.

"For what are you sorry?" he asked.

Greg forced himself to take a breath before he answered. He didn't want to mess this up.

"What I did. I... I know we'd had a lot to drink. I mean, that's not an excuse, it's just... a-and I kinda lost my head."

Mycroft said nothing. Greg couldn't even feel him breathing.

"I didn't mean it to turn out like that," he finished. It sounded even lamer outside of his head than inside it. "I'm sorry it made things crap between us. The last thing I wanted."

"You regret... kissing me?" Mycroft said.

_Jesus. Don't let this be a heart attack. Not now._

"All of it," Greg said. "M'sorry."

More silence came. "You do, then."

"I...?"

"Regret - what we did."

_Say it. Just say it, tell him you regret it. Just tell him and this'll all be over._

"That whole thing was a mess," Greg said, suppressing the urge to speak faster. "I regret anything I did to make you uncomfortable, Mycroft. The whole lot. I didn't mean to."

Mycroft breathed in.

"You won't say it," he said. He didn't sound like himself anymore. His voice was tight and oddly pitched. "Why won't you say it?"

"J-Jesus. Look, I - I'll say it if you want. If it'll clear things up between us."

"Why do you not want to?"

"I, um - i-it's - "

"Why did you return to your wife?" Mycroft asked suddenly, and Greg dug his fingernails into his palms. The sting helped him speak.

"I was - s-stupid. Trusting. That's why."

"Because you loved her?"

 _God, I can't even say that. Why can't I say that? She was my wife. Of course I loved her._ "I-It's complicated."

"Why did you kiss me?"

"Okay, that's - that's complicated, too - "

"You were emotional," Mycroft said, his voice breaking. "You - the separation - you were emotionally compromised."

"Oh - Jesus, _no_ \- "

"Seeking comfort."

"Christ, no, it wasn't like that - "

"Then for what reason?"

Greg covered his face. "Okay," he said. "Okay, listen - I'll tell you. I'll talk to you. I just need you to know that it - it _doesn't matter,_ alright? I don't want to be like this anymore. Uncomfortable with each other. You don't have to be weird with me."

"Then talk," Mycroft bit out, pulling away from Greg. Their coats slid apart, cold air seeping into the space where Mycroft had been. Greg's heart strained at the sudden space. "Talk or do not talk. Choose one of them and _do it."_

_Screwed things up already, haven't I?_

_Might as well screw them up completely._

Greg told the darkness. He was glad it was there - he didn't want to see any glimpse of Mycroft's face while he said these words.

"It's like this. Okay? I - I kissed you because... J-Jesus, I had such a thing for you. Always did. Since we first... m'sorry if that's weird to hear. It doesn't matter. You're just my type, and it - i-it felt like a bit of a miracle, that night at the club. Getting to tell you at last. The booze made me brave."

The silence echoed.

Greg went on, telling it all his pain.

"I know it wasn't like that for you," he said, shaking. "I know it was just - y-you know what? It doesn't matter what it was for you. It's okay. Whatever it was, it wasn't wanted and I'm just really sorry."

No reply came from the darkness - no response.

Greg pushed his hands back through his hair. _Damage control. Clean up what you can._

_Then go home and regret._

"Just needed you to know," he said. He swallowed. "I'd take it back if I could. I know you haven't wanted anything to do with me since, and I get why. Just - can we forget it, maybe? Start again?"

After what seemed like an eternity, he felt the fabric draped over him stir. He thought at first that Mycroft was getting up - backing away from him further, finding himself another corner to wait out their silent incarceration, and pain jagged through Greg's chest at what he'd done.

Then he realised Mycroft was moving closer.

A hand touched his arm, searching for him in the darkness. Greg stayed still, unbreathing as Mycroft took hold of him. Another hand appeared on his other arm, establishing where he was - then both slid up and around his shoulders.

As Mycroft embraced him, Greg began to shake.

He wrapped his arms uncertainly around Mycroft's back. The darkness was pounding; he could feel every cell in his body vibrating with it, echoing. This moment felt too intense to be real.

Mycroft held onto him without a sound, his chin resting on Greg's shoulder.

After an endless stretch of silence, he said in barely a whisper,

"I needed - time."

Greg said nothing, listening without a breath.

"You were... s-still married. Hadn't foreseen that outcome. Hadn't meant to show you that I... a-and I am unused to people. Wary."

Greg tightened his arms.

Mycroft's tightened, too. He went on, whispering against Greg's jaw.

"I needed to think," he said. "When I... when I'd finally.. I h-heard from Sherlock... heard that you'd returned to - "

Greg's heart cracked.

"Y-You should have told me," he breathed. "Should have... J-Jesus. One word to me. _One word."_

"It was no more than a fortnight."

Greg's heart squeezed into his throat. "That's a long time to ignore someone calling you twice a day."

"I had _never - "_

Mycroft's muscles tensed; he shut up at once, shrinking immediately into silence.

Greg forced himself to exhale. As he did, he turned his face into Mycroft's neck. The skin there felt perfectly soft, warm and clean and male.

He let its scent calm him.

"Never?" he murmured. "Never anyone? Not at all?"

Mycroft barely spoke in the silence. "No."

_God almighty._

"I didn't realise," Greg whispered. "I... I thought..."

"You thought _wrong,"_ Mycroft bit out.

Greg's heart reeled, breaking open as he started to understand. "You're a Holmes," he whispered. "You... th-that's just who you are. You need time. Jesus, four years. That's what it's taken us to talk. And I couldn't wait two weeks."

Mycroft's voice broke.

"You used me," he said. "You took advantage of me for comfort. When you were - "

"No. No, darlin'. I gave _my marriage_ another go for comfort. Because I thought you - I thought you didn't want - "

A shudder passed through Mycroft's body.

"Do not lie to me," he said, suddenly sharp, and for the first time Greg heard the fear in it. _"Don't you dare._ You were grieving your wife's adultery and you exploited me. You knew that I admired you. You'd always known. You knew that I would be responsive."

_Jesus._

"If you'd picked up your bloody phone," Greg said, "I'd have told you why I kissed you. I'd have told you a hundred times. I'd have told you every single day since then."

Mycroft retreated immediately into silence once more, his grip ever tighter around Greg's shoulders.

Greg raked his fingers through the soft red hair he couldn't see. He drew a deep breath of Mycroft's scent, telling himself there was one clear path which would lead them away from this.

That path was patience.

"Listen," he whispered, letting his voice fall low and soft. "We've not slept. This whole situation is stressful. I know you're freaking out, so just listen to me for a minute or two - take this away - think about it in your own time. This is truth you're about to hear."

He felt Mycroft tremor, listening to him without a sound.

"At any point," Greg said, softly, "in the last _nine years..._ if someone had found a way to scan my heart, and tell you what I think of you? It would have told you the truth in black and white. I'm crazy about you. Sometimes I can't cope with how I feel just thinking about you. You do things to me nobody else has ever done. You always have. When I was married, that _crippled_ me. Then my marriage fell apart. I agreed to patch it up because I had nothing else, and we limped on another year - but it was over the day she reached for someone else. And it's long over now. And... when you feel ready to talk about this?"

He nuzzled his face against Mycroft's neck.

"I'll be around - okay? You can ring me at any time. E-mail me, if it's easier for you to talk like that. Or just send a car and pick me up, and we'll lock ourselves in a vault for nine hours. I don't mind, Mycroft. I'll wait."

Mycroft's chest expanded as he inhaled, deep and slow.

Greg breathed with him, releasing four years of pain.

"Take however long you need," he murmured. "I'll be here this time."

Mycroft hesitated, nervously touching the back of Greg's hair. He shifted a little, drawing back, and trailed his nose along the stubble on Greg's jaw - and as Greg's pulse kicked, wondering if Mycroft was about to do what he thought he was, shy lips pressed against his own.

Greg's heart heaved.

For several seconds he didn't move, his thoughts blitzed out with shock. As his brain switched back on, he felt Mycroft give a nervous shudder and begin to pull away, mumbling the start of an apology.

Shaking, Greg pulled him close.

Their mouths sealed and stroked, soft and desperate; every tiny sound seemed to fill the space around them. Greg brushed his tongue gently across the join of Mycroft's lips. They opened for him with a faint whimper, hope and relief at once, and Greg would never forget that noise. He'd never loved a sound so much. They gripped each other's shirts in desperation, shaking, the kiss deepening as they pushed to get closer.

Holding Mycroft tight against his chest, Greg sank slowly back to the floor.

They kissed as if four years had passed in only minutes. Mycroft began to shiver in his shirtsleeves; Greg reached for the nearest handful of fabric and dragged it over them, wrapping Mycroft in what little warmth he could provide. The gentle stroke of their lips was enough to forget where they were, forget the darkness, the quiet, the cold stone floor against his back. It didn't matter - they were just details. None of it mattered.

Mycroft mattered.

When their lips finally parted, he gave a nervous shiver.

"It will nearly be nine," he whispered against Greg's mouth. "The security - there will be c-cameras - "

Greg understood at once.

He stole one last tiny kiss. "S'okay, darlin'. Let's get back in our coats, then. Keep this between you and me."

He felt Mycroft shiver again and heard him swallow.

"I - I would like to talk, Greg. Discuss this further. Soon."

"Me too. As soon as you want, okay? Just let me know."

Mycroft eased off him nervously, keeping one hand on his chest. "I b-believe this is your coat..."

Greg took the soft fabric he was handed. "Thanks, darlin'... think I felt yours over here."

His heart was still pounding as he pulled his coat on, smoothing the lapels through muscle memory alone. He didn't have a clue about the state of his hair. He had a feeling Mycroft had brushed it onto end as they kissed, but he had much greater priorities right now.

"Where are you?" he asked, gently, reaching a blind hand into the darkness.

"H-Here," Mycroft's voice said, further to the left. Greg felt carefully until he found another hand reaching back for his.

Their fingers tangled as they stepped close. Mycroft leant nervously against his chest, seeking contact and comfort; Greg's heart drummed as they found each other in a hug.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Mycroft shuddered. "Y-Yes. Yes, I think so."

"We'll be out of here soon," Greg promised. "We'll get you home so you can sleep, and we'll be alright. Everything'll be okay."

There was a pause, Mycroft lingering close to him in the dark.

Tentative fingers brushed along Greg's jaw. They tilted his head, guiding him close for one last kiss.

It was almost painful to come apart.

"I'm - v-very fond of you, Greg," Mycroft whispered. "I always have been. I don't know the first thing about these kinds of connections, but I - I think you are wonderful."

_God._

_God, nine hours in a vault... one conversation, and..._

"Come to me when you're ready," Greg murmured. "I'll give you space if you need it, okay? I'll give you time." His heart gripped; the still-surging endorphins made him brave. "Can you let me know once a week that you're still thinking things through? Just a text. That's all it needs to say, Mycroft. Just so I know you're alright and I can sleep."

Mycroft exhaled shakily.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I promise. I'm - sorry I didn't - "

"It's okay. The past is the past, alright? We'll start from the start."

A sudden noise interrupted the quiet: the muffled first blast of an alarm, sounding just outside the door.

Greg's heart ached with relief.

"Nine AM," he murmured. He gently let Mycroft go. "Christ, we made it."

"Greg?"

"Y-Yeah?"

"Thank you. Thank you for... th-thank you."

Greg had never wanted to pull someone back into his arms so much in his life. "It's alright, darlin'. Thank you, too. This'll be a hell of a memory to look back on some day, I promise."

They listened, breathless, to the distant screams of the alarm.

"Still going to kill Sherlock," Greg added, biting his lip.

Mycroft shivered beside him. "Naturally."

 


	5. Morning

They were taken to separate interview rooms.

Greg had spent enough of his life as a police officer to understand why. All the same, it was hard to see Mycroft escorted away from him - and it was harder still to concentrate on explaining the circumstances, when all he wanted to do was to be near Mycroft again.

_All this time._

_God, all this time._

He was searched to ensure nothing had been removed from the vault. His Scotland Yard ID was taken off him to be verified, and there came a delay as calls were made. Someone brought him a coffee, a bag of crisps and a blanket, and let him use the bathroom.

As he waited for news in the interview room, all he thought about was Mycroft. He thought about their soft and desperate kissing in the dark, how the lack of all light had turned every single touch into a memory. He thought about the look in Mycroft's eyes as the vault door had opened, seeing Greg smiling quietly there beside him. He thought about the next few weeks - how difficult it might be to sit patiently.

He would manage it. After nine years, a little longer to wait would be nothing.

_As long as he needs. All the time and space it takes._

After almost half an hour, a message finally arrived: Scotland Yard had confirmed Greg's identity. They were sending someone to collect him immediately and take him home.

"Is Mycroft okay?" he asked one of the security officers. "The guy who was with me... he was cold - you've got him sorted, right?"

The officer told him Mycroft's identity had been verified, that their stories had matched, and he'd now been taken home by his assistant.

 _Good._ Greg curled quietly in his chair to finish his coffee, his heart thumping. _Home's what you need right now. Rest._

By the time Sally was shown into the room, Greg was longing for home too. The thought of a hot bath and his bed was almost too much to handle. He wanted to eat - a proper fried breakfast - he wanted his couch and the telly, noise and familiar comforts.

One look at Sally's face, and he realised he wouldn't be having them just yet.

"What?" he asked, heart falling, as she eased her hands into her pockets.

Her mouth pulled at the corner. "Hawkridge," she said.

Greg searched her face, concerned by the frown. "Gone? Bolted?"

"No. In custody, thanks to your friend and his theatrics. It's a long story and we've got people searching Hawkridge's flat - apparently we'll find all the evidence we need there - but the other one... what's his name? In the jumpers."

Greg's pulse skipped a beat. "John?"

"That's it. He had a run-in with Hawkridge - got himself a nasty knife wound. Ambulance reached him quickly and he's stable in St Barts."

 _Oh my god._ Greg pushed the blanket off his shoulders.

"Jesus," he said. "Is he still there now?"

"Yep. Freak's with him."

"Right." Greg grabbed the cold coffee mug, downing the last of it. He would need it. "Take me there."

Sally raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

"I need to see John. Is Sherlock okay?"

Sally's forehead contracted in amazement. "Didn't he just lock you in a bank vault overnight?" she asked. "And you're wondering if _he's_ okay?"

"Did he get attacked too? Do I need to contact his brother?"

"No - no, he's fine. Boy Wonder shoved him out of the way."

"Right." Greg pulled his phone from his pocket. "I'll text anyway. Can you drive? I'm not fit."

 

*

 

By the time they reached the hospital, Greg had started to wonder if this was actually all some long and painful dream. He'd now been awake for the better part of thirty hours, and the dual intensity of joy over Mycroft and panic over John were combining to leave him feeling nearly nauseous.

Sally saw him to the doors of the ward. He told her to head back to Scotland Yard, promising he'd get a taxi home when he was done.

He then went in search of John, bracing for what he might find.

John had been put in a quiet room all the way along the corridor. Most of the beds were either empty or occupied by strangers, though curtains were drawn around the furthest.

Greg approached it with care, reaching for his ID badge through instinct.

"John?" he tried at the curtain. "Sherlock?"

There came the sound of movement from within. A moment later a nurse appeared, drawing the curtain back with an inquiring expression.

"John Watson?" Greg checked, offering her a flash of his badge. "I'm a friend. Only just heard."

The nurse nodded and swapped places with him, slipping out with John's chart under her arm.

Sherlock was sitting by the bed, completely motionless with his head in his hands. His coat was missing; his shirt was spotted with visible flecks of blood.

He looked like a broken man.

John, in comparison, was a vision of peace - comfortably asleep, tucked up beneath the clean white sheets. He was a little pale, but Greg had expected much worse. The sight of him sleeping calmly was enough to start Greg's heart again.

He Greg took the other chair, lowering himself into it with a quiet creak. Sherlock looked up from his hands at last.

His expression opened.

"Lestrade," he said, guilt flashing across his face.

It was a sign of Greg's exhaustion that it took him a second to remember why Sherlock might be feeling guilty. When he did, he breathed in, boxed up his annoyance in his mind and marked it for later. Some things mattered more.

"How's he doing, mate?" he said.

Sherlock glanced down into the bed, his expression tightening.

"Hawkridge," he said. His voice thickened; he swallowed to clear it, stiffening. "He was intent on harming me in order to prevent his arrest. John - stepped in the way."

"Got the ambulance there quick, did you?"

"Yes. As quickly as I could."

"Good. Well... they'd have him in another ward if it was worse, Sherlock. Sure they're doing everything they can. He'll just need rest."

Sherlock said nothing, still gazing at John lying between them in the bed. Greg had never seen him quite so unhappy.

"You alright?" he said, gently. "Bit of a shock?"

Sherlock was silent for some time. "Hawkridge... could have..."

"I know, mate. He didn't though, did he? Hold onto that."

He was surprised to see a shudder run through Sherlock's shoulders. "I e-endangered John. I didn't realise Hawkridge would be armed... I - made a mistake. It could have ended John's life."

Greg bit his tongue quietly.

"Not sure you thought this particular plan through, did you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock glanced up at him, guilty again. "Your incarceration was necessary, Lestrade. You would have stopped me apprehending Hawkridge."

Greg raised his eyebrows. He nodded down at John without a word.

Sherlock paled into silence.

He exhaled, closing his eyes.

"I understand," he murmured. "I - appreciate the point."

"All I needed was evidence, Sherlock. Then I'd have sent the guys with stab-proof vests after Hawkridge. You didn't need to fast-track it - not when there was this amount of risk involved. Right?"

"Y-Yes. Yes, I see that now..."

"And you didn't need to go behind my back," Greg added, calmly. "You could've come to me and said, _Lestrade, I think we need to act quickly._ I'd have listened, wouldn't I?"

Sherlock wrapped his hand around his other wrist, squeezing. "Yes."

"'Cause I always listen. This didn't need to happen."

"It didn't. I - I'm sorry, Lestrade."

Greg breathed it in and let it go. "S'alright, Sherlock. I can see you've learned." He bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to glow with the memories. "You might have more of an apology to make to your brother. He's on his way now."

Sherlock's gaze shuttered. "Why?"

"To check you're alright."

"I am alright," Sherlock said, flatly. "John is not."

Greg held his gaze, wishing John was awake to hear this. "Well, Mycroft wants to see you for himself. He's concerned, Sherlock. He just needs to know you're okay."

Sherlock's eyes darkened. "And to lecture me, no doubt."

"Sherlock, you just locked the pair of us in a freezing cold bank vault for nine hours. We had no food, no water, no way of sleeping or staying warm. I'm telling you with kindness that you've made some spectacularly crap decisions about this case. One of them was what you did to me and Mycroft. Frankly, you deserve a lecture - but for what it's worth, your brother was happy to wait to do that. He's now out of bed and on his way here, and it's to see that you're alright. Can you take that to heart, please?"

Sherlock said nothing, looking down at John again.

Greg reminded himself of the nature of Holmeses and softened his tone.

"I know you're worried about him, mate," he said. "Mycroft's worried about you the same way."

Sherlock took some time to respond. When he did, it was almost inaudible.

"Not the same way," he mumbled.

Greg paused, reading his expression. There was something in it he couldn't just ignore. Deciding to proceed with caution, he said, "No?"

Sherlock's jaw worked a little. "No."

The silence stretched on for a while.

"Has this... maybe got you thinking, mate?" Greg asked. "About how you treat John?"

He watched Sherlock shift in his chair, glancing up towards John's heart monitor.

"John is very kind," Sherlock said at last, as his eyes followed the steady pulse. "He's very patient. Very... noble. When he stepped in front of me, I don't believe he intended to prevent a murder."

"No?"

"No." Sherlock didn't move, still watching the screen. "He was displacing it."

Greg let the words linger, weighting the silence.

"He _is_ noble," he murmured at last. "John's a brave and selfless man. Always has been. But... maybe there's more to it than just nobility. Y'know?"

Sherlock looked up at him, his forehead tightening. "More to it?"

Greg tried a quiet smile. "He wouldn't have done that for anybody, Sherlock. He did it for _you."_

It was some time before Sherlock had processed this enough to speak.

"John - cares for me very much," he said.

Greg nodded, gently. "A lot more than an ordinary friend."

Sherlock fell into quiet again. Greg watched him carefully, unable to forget about other recent stretches of recent quiet - how full they'd seemed, thick with unspoken words and thoughts.

"You mean the world to John, Sherlock," he said. "If he means something to you, too... when he's awake, this might be a good chance to say it."

Sherlock's nod was almost invisible.

He laid a hand on the side of the bed, where John's arm rested beneath the sheets.

"I'm sorry for my actions, Lestrade," he said. "It was - misguided of me to imprison you. I should have sought your counsel instead. Please accept my apology and my regret."

Greg felt his throat tighten.

He reached across the bed, patting Sherlock's arm. "S'alright, Sherlock," he said. "No harm done."

Beyond the curtains, there came the quick squeak of the door.

"Excuse me," said a voice at once, out of breath. Greg's heart performed a distinct flip behind his ribs. "I'm looking for John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Where are they?"

Greg got up from his chair. He reached for the curtain, ready for the lightning bolt. _Here it comes._

"Mycroft?" he said, drawing it back.

Mycroft looked around.

_God._

It was almost dizzying, the force of it - the slamming surge of happiness and relief. _There you are,_ Greg's heart seemed to gasp. It was like seeing Mycroft for the first time all over again, there in his black coat, his hair dishevelled and his cheeks pale with worry. _How are you even more beautiful when you're frightened?_

From the look on Mycroft's face, a very similar sensation had occurred for him.

"Greg," he breathed.

Greg held back the curtain. "Just in here," he said, with his best attempt at a smile. _God, I just want to be alone with you. I want to go somewhere. Hold each other, heal._ "They're both alright."

As Mycroft stepped by him, their shoulders brushed. Greg had a feeling it was a purposeful error. He kept his internal response off his face, drew the curtain again, and watched as Mycroft swept over to Sherlock at once.

"Let me see you."

Sherlock grimaced as Mycroft examined him, trying to swat away his brother's hands. It was a half-hearted attempt at best.

"For heaven's sake..." Mycroft said, exhaling in a rush as he studied Sherlock's bloodstained shirt. "You might have been killed. You might have gotten Watson killed. How could you be so - "

"Mycroft," Greg said, gently.

Mycroft stopped at once. He swallowed the words he'd been about to say; Greg watched him breathe them out.

"I'm glad you are alright. We will discuss your poor decisions later." Mycroft glanced for John's chart at the end of the bed, finding it missing. "Have the medical staff estimated how long he'll need to remain in hospital?"

Sherlock looked down with discomfort, his gaze straying back towards John's face.

"Several days," he said. "They need to monitor him. His recovery."

"We'll have him transferred to London Bridge," Mycroft said. "He'll be afforded a private room there and there are no restrictions upon visiting hours. Before I can make those arrangements I will need coffee. Can I trust you to remain here until that has happened?"

Sherlock visibly bit his tongue.

"I'm going to stay with John until he's recovered," he said. "I won't be leaving."

Mycroft exhaled.

"Good," he said. "Inspector, I imagine you're in similar need of caffeine. May I bring you anything from the canteen?"

Hoping he was correctly reading the hint here, Greg took a risk.

"You know what, I might come with you - if that's okay - they do decent breakfasts here and I'm starving."

"Very well," Mycroft said, his face a picture of calm. "Sherlock, stay here. I will return when I've made arrangements for the transfer, and you can explain to me at length just how keenly you regret your actions."

 

*

 

They joined the queue for the canteen together in silence. Greg took a plastic tray from the pile and placed it between them.

Mycroft silently added two hefty chocolate muffins.

"Both for you, right?" Greg said, with a sideways smile.

Mycroft returned him a look of mixed amusement, exhaustion and nerves. "One of them is for you."

"I know, Mycroft. M'teasing. If it helps, I could eat about six."

"Yes... yes, I feel quite the same..."

Greg nudged his arm gently with an elbow. "Get a proper breakfast too," he said. "You need protein, not just sugar. We had a rough night."

"Mm. You're right. Perhaps just this once..."

They moved a place along the queue. A young girl in a hairnet took their order - two full breakfasts, Greg's with white toast and Mycroft's with wholemeal; two large americano coffees to drink in.

As she moved away, quiet gathered around them.

Greg brought his mouth nearer to Mycroft's ear, covering the gesture as a glance over his shoulder.

"You okay?" he said. "Didn't really like being separated... worried about you."

He felt Mycroft's shudder as if it was his own.

"I-I am dreaming," Mycroft said.

 _God._ "If you're dreaming, I'm dreaming it too."

Mycroft's eyes flickered shut.

"I've thought about you constantly," he said. Greg's entire chest ached in response. "I feel - wild. Overwhelmed. You can't imagine how much I wish to lean against you in this moment."

Greg breathed in slowly. "Believe me, I can."

"Greg..."

Greg glanced around the room again. "D'you know anyone here?"

As they moved along in the queue, Mycroft made a quiet scan of the canteen behind them. His gaze swept its way from face-to-face.

"No," he said.

Greg nudged their tray along the rail.

He reached out, wrapped a quiet arm around Mycroft's waist, and gently drew him close.

Mycroft leant into his side with a shiver, audibly breathing out.

"Crazy night," Greg murmured, as the busy canteen carried on around them. He turned his head, pressed a quiet kiss against Mycroft's hair and closed his eyes. "Tell me you're alright. Tell me this isn't too much. Please."

He felt Mycroft shake a little. "How soon can we talk?"

Greg's mouth curved, warmth humming through his chest. "Meant what I said. Soon as you're ready."

"I feel - n-new, Greg. As if the world ended in that vault. This one is another world. I have never seen it before."

Greg tightened his arm, forcing himself to breathe away the lump in his throat. He pressed another kiss to Mycroft's head. "I know what you mean."

"Dear god... what is happening to us?"

"Something long overdue, I think." They moved on another place in the queue, staying in their quiet half-hug. Greg took another hopeful risk. "Hey," he murmured. "Say no if you're not ready. I won't mind and it's alright. But... if I asked you to come for dinner with me tonight... would you? We can sit and talk. Go somewhere quiet and easy together, spend some time where we can actually see each other."

Mycroft inhaled.

"Yes," he whispered. Greg had to close his eyes for a moment, just to handle the rush of sheer happiness. "Yes, I... I'd accept your invitation, Greg. I'd like that."

Greg bit his lip, hiding another kiss against Mycroft's hair.

"Good," he said. He lowered his voice, murmuring in Mycroft's ear. "I know we can't redo nine years. I know there's been mistakes. But the last nine hours feel like a pretty decent fresh start... don't you think?"

Mycroft made a small, perfect noise against his shoulder.

"I do. Very, very much."

They'd reached the till. As the cashier totalled up their food, Greg slid his free hand inside his coat for his wallet. Realising, Mycroft stalled his arm.

"No," he said softly, retrieving his own. "Let me. Please."

"You sure?" said Greg, giving him a fond glance. "I don't mind."

"I'd like to, Greg. Frankly the least I can do."

Greg couldn't hide his smile. "Alright," he said. "If you're sure."

The cashier took Mycroft's card, slotting it into the machine.

As he watched the transaction go through, Greg lifted his mouth to Mycroft's ear again.

"You get this one, darlin'," he said, adoring the shiver it arose. "I'll get tonight."

 


	6. Care

"I've got to ask, mate..."

John looked up from the raspberry sponge cake he was cutting, bright-eyed and smiling. They were in Baker Street; it was a bright and gorgeous Sunday. Upon Greg's arrival at the flat, Sherlock had been sent out for more milk - they were running low, John explained. Lots of visitors had called since he'd come home.

Greg was hoping there might be more to it than that.

"Did you know what Sherlock was planning?" he asked, smiling from the opposite armchair.

John laughed.

"With the vault? God, no," he said, as he transferred a slice of cake carefully to a plate for Greg. "No, I didn't have a clue. If he'd told me he was planning that, I'd have warned you both not to come. Nearly lost my mind when I saw him slam the door."

_And none of it would have happened._

_I'd have watched the footie, finished my cider and gone to bed..._

"Think he's learned his lesson?" Greg asked, picking up his fork.

The brightness in John's eyes was incredibly interesting.

"Miracles never cease, I suppose." He cut himself a piece of cake, giving Greg an almost sly smile. "I've warned him all future plans have to go through me first, or I won't be letting him leave the house. Can I ask you something now?"

Greg grinned. "Now you've plied me with cake? Sure. Go on."

John bit his lip, pulling it between his teeth.

"What did you say to Sherlock?" he asked.

"When?" said Greg, his grin widening.

"In the hospital."

"Said a few things to Sherlock in the hospital," Greg replied. "Chief among them that he's a pillock who locked me in a bank vault. Why?"

"What did you say to him about _me?"_ said John, his eyes brighter than ever. "He told me you'd helped... talked to him. Got him thinking."

Greg's grin was threatening to spread off his face.

"Why do I get the feeling you wanna tell me something?" he asked, and John smothered his smile with an immediate mouthful of cake. He chewed, taking the time to choose his words.

 _"Whatever_ you told Sherlock," he said at last, a picture of discretion, "thanks."

"John..."

John reached for his cup of tea.

"Early days," he said, grinning.

Greg's heart swooped inside his chest. _"Fantastic."_

 _"Very_ early days. A lot of talking."

"That's still bloody brilliant. So he knows you...?"

"He does."

"And does he...?"

"He's processing it," John said, with a sip of tea, "but... yeah, he does. Something's starting. Tiny steps - we're taking it slow. Trying not to spook him."

Greg's heart heaved. He knew that feeling. "D'you have any idea how happy I am for you, mate?"

"Think I do." John eyed him with amusement over the mug, one eyebrow lifting. "Shall we do your happy news now?"

 _God._ "What news?"

"Greg..."

Greg laughed, shaking his head with a grin as he scooped more cake onto his fork. "What's to tell?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

"Dunno what you're on about, mate. I'm just glad you're back out of hospital."

"Yeah?" John watched him eat his cake, grinning from ear-to-ear. "Nothing happened in the vault, then?"

Greg couldn't hold it any longer. He covered his mouth as he chewed, so happy it was hard to put it into words.

"How'd you know?"

"He called to ask how I am this morning. Seemed like he was in a very good mood."

"And you assumed that's something to do with me, did you?"

"He was in a _very_ good mood, Greg."

 _Christ._ "Early days."

"Yeah?"

"Lot of talking."

"Tiny steps?"

"Tiny steps," said Greg, scooping up more cake. "Taking it slow."

"How did it happen?"

"We just... got talking, I s'pose. Nine hours of mandatory sorting stuff out. Eventually we got round to... y'know, before - when I was separated from Claire."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Turns out it was the first time he'd... well, he'd not had many relationships - "

John's eyes sparkled, understanding at once.

 _Sherlock, too,_ Greg thought. _Both of them._

" - and he got a bit freaked out, needed space... by the time he tried to get in touch with me again, I'd met with her. Decided to give it all another go. He went off thinking I'd used him on the rebound, trying to make myself feel better. I went off thinking I was some failed experiment. Four years later..."

"Finally talked," said John, smiling. "Finally sorted it out."

"Mad to think it was all because of Sherlock's daft idea with the vault."

"It _was_ daft, you're right. I don't think he'll be trying anything like that again in a hurry. But - well, at least some good came out of it."

"I wish you hadn't been hurt, mate."

John chuckled as he took a sip of tea. "Swings and roundabouts," he said, glancing down towards his waist. Beneath his shirt he was still heavily bandaged, and would be for a while. He didn't seem to be suffering too much for it at least. "Maybe a tiny taste of regret can be useful, when it gets people thinking..."

"Just what the doctor ordered, sometimes."

John's smile seemed to twinkle. "M'glad, Greg."

Greg felt his heart expand. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, me too - really glad. For all of us."

"Let's leave it a while before double-dating, shall we?"

"Christ." Greg's head hurt even at the thought. "Yeah. Let's leave that on the 'maybe someday' pile."

"Get them used to single-dating first."

Greg chuckled, skewering his last forkful of cake. "First things first," he said, placed it in his mouth and chewed. When he'd swallowed, he reached for his mug of tea. "D'you think they know?"

"About each other?"

"Mm."

John thought about it, settling back against the sofa cushions with care. "I've not heard Sherlock mention anything."

"No... no, I've not heard anything either. Maybe they haven't realised yet?"

"But they're Holmeses," said John. "They know everything. Well... nearly everything."

"Maybe they know," Greg suggested, "but don't really care."

John smiled, reaching for the cake. As he cut Greg another piece, he said,

"Mate... if there's anything we've learned from all this, it's that when Holmeses don't care, they really really _do."_

 

*

 

As Sherlock came in sight of the front door of Baker Street, carrying a four-pint bottle of milk and a multipack of the crisps John seemed to like, the sight of a waiting black Audi made him pause.

He approached idly, calmly, as if he hadn't even noticed.

When he was nearly at the steps, the passenger door opened.

Mycroft emerged from the car, wearing his customary expression of supercilious disinterest - as well as a high-end cologne, a tie which he'd chosen to match his eyes, and cufflinks far too showy for a weekend afternoon. He'd started carrying his phone in a different pocket, the better to reach it with his right-hand and so send frequent text messages. He'd gained three pounds in decadent restaurant desserts and cooked breakfasts; he didn't care in the slightest.

He watched Sherlock walk the last few steps of the way, noting the crisps in his hand, the shirt John told him looked pleasing, the new hair conditioner that made his curls easier to stroke through without tangles.

They met eyes, feet apart on the pavement in silence.

Mycroft closed the door of the car. He'd spent yesterday evening in Lestrade's flat; they'd watched television and drunk red - no, _white_ \- wine together. He'd left before ten. They'd then swapped text messages past midnight.

Sherlock brushed it all aside with a blink.

"How are you?" he asked. He'd learned the real use of this question recently: it was rarely a genuine status request. It was more commonly a way of indicating that one cared about the answer.

Mycroft processed this development, one eyebrow lifting.

"I'm very well," he said, searching Sherlock's face. "How are you?"

Sherlock glanced down at the milk bottle in his hand. John and Lestrade would have finished their tea by now; they would need more soon.

"I'm fine," he said, wondering if he was now expected to issue an invitation. He checked again, reading the signs. _Ah - no. You're aware that he is here and you wish to see him as he leaves, but you don't expect to come inside._ "He might be having a second cup," he warned his brother. "I'm unsure whether they've finished clandestinely discussing us yet. I'll add cold water to the pot to speed him along, if you wish."

His brother's mouth flattened, unsettled by the honesty. It had never been Mycroft's strong point.

"How kind," he intoned, stiff-shouldered. "Perhaps I should contact him later instead."

"No, there's - no need." Sherlock glanced at the side of Mycroft's neck, noting the slight discolouration beneath his jawline; very mild irritation from contact with stubble. "What is that like?"

Mycroft's forehead tightened, his eyes darkening at once.

"What is what like?" he asked, even though he knew very well. _Uncomfortable. Not wishing to discuss it with me. Intimate contact - private._

Sherlock glanced along the street instead.

"I'm glad you're happy with Lestrade," he said. "I imagine his loyalty and patience will make excellent qualities in a long-term partner."

Mycroft raised a wry eyebrow. He prepared a defensive reply in his mouth, then thought again - changed his mind - swallowed back the words, settled himself and finally said,

"Thank you. I imagine the same of Doctor Watson."

Sherlock glanced down at the fancy crisps in his hand.

"I hope I'm worthy," he said. "I will try to be."

The surprise in Mycroft's expression would stay with him for some time. It softened, disarmed by the sentiment.

"I'm told that trust begets trust," he said.

Sherlock processed this. _Interesting._

He supposed it made sense.

Before he could respond, he heard the door open behind him. A glance over his shoulder revealed Lestrade now grinning in the doorway, standing in his striped grey socks without a coat.

"Are you two bringing in the milk or not?" he asked, as Sherlock stole an inquisitive glance at his brother's reaction. That was undeniably a twitch of a smile; Mycroft's eyes had taken on a shine. He'd missed Lestrade. "I've put the kettle on. For four, is it?"

A slight flush rose in Mycroft's cheeks. "Ah - no, I... I don't wish to intrude."

"You're not," Lestrade said, amused. He'd missed Mycroft too, Sherlock thought - a great deal. There was a warmth in his gaze Sherlock had never seen there before. It suited him. "Come up for coffee. There's sponge cake in it for you."

Mycroft glanced uncertainly at Sherlock.

"You are welcome to come in," Sherlock confirmed, "though if either of you drinks more than four pints of milk, I must insist that you go out for more."

"Seems fair," Lestrade said, and smiled hopefully at Mycroft. "D'you think?"

As Sherlock led the way up to the flat, he sensed a certain lingering on the staircase behind him. There came the sound of a gentle kiss upon a cheek.

"Mycroft," he called back, wincing a little, "as pleased as I am for the pair of you, can you kindly refrain from pairing beneath my roof?"

"It's not just your roof," came a call through the open door on the landing. "Is that the milk?"

"Yes," Sherlock responded. "It's also my brother. He's just physically reacquainting himself with Lestrade on the stairs. I imagine they'll be a minute."

 

*

 

As Sherlock disappeared through the door above, Mycroft felt a little of his shyness loosen. Greg's arms tightened fondly around his waist; he smiled, returning the soft peck to Greg's cheek.

Greg's grin seemed to shine from within him, as bright as any star.

"Hello, darlin'..." he murmured. Mycroft's pulse quickened, glad to have those soft black eyes back upon his face. He'd missed them. "How was your morning?"

_I spent it thinking of you._

"Productive, thank you. I - hope this isn't intrusive, Greg. I merely thought..."

"Don't need to explain," Greg said, smiling, and tenderly cupped his face. "M'glad to see you, love. I missed you."

As they kissed, Mycroft's heart seemed to grow to double its size; it felt too big to fit inside his chest, too much happiness to stay inside his skin.

They'd been in love for nine days now.

It seemed like so much longer.

 _You are mine,_ he thought, ringing with it, breathless with the joy of it, as Greg's fingers soothed with fondness through his hair. _You care for me. You miss me when I'm gone..._

As they parted, Greg whispered against his lips.

"When we're done here, darlin'... d'you want to do something together? Go for a walk, maybe? It's a pretty Sunday." He felt Greg smile, rubbing the side of his nose against Mycroft's. "Let's make the best of it."

_The best of your weekend is being with me._

_This is real._

_All of it is real._

"I'd love that," Mycroft whispered, nuzzling back. "A walk would be wonderful."

Greg grinned, stealing a final small kiss.

"Coffee first, yeah? Spend some time with your brother. Then we'll sneak off, just you and me."

His hand stole into Mycroft's, lacing their fingers tight.

"What're the chances we'll end up going for dinner tonight?" he asked, with a wink. "Can't remember who's turn it is now."

"My turn," Mycroft said, glowing, as his boyfriend led him by the hand up the stairs. _French,_ he thought. _Candlelight and music._ "I do hope the chances are high."

 

_The End_

 


End file.
